“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.”
I’m thinking of Liz’s comment “WIth the exception of those who go pure hermit we all have to extend a tremendous amount of trust to others, just on the day to day.”
This post is about an old hermit who had long since done his assessment of risk and trust, and opted out.
When I was a kid I built my own kayak with a wooden frame and canvas (flax skin) hull. The kayak had water-tight compartments in the bilge in which I’d stash knives, fishing gear, and some other basic provisions, and paddle for days into the boonies. It’s interesting that my caregivers let me do this – a mere kid disappearing into the unforgiving alpine environment for days on end. Looking back on it now, I don’t think they had much choice. They seemed to understand that I was as wild as the land, and when I had to go, I had to go.
You will have noticed that I used the word “caregivers” rather than “parents”. As a child I was something of a handful. At various stages I was raised by my parents, my grandparents, and my great grandparents. Incredibly they were all fond of me despite my bad boy nature. I was much-loved.
THE GREYWACKE HUT:
One day, after hefting my kayak up onto a lonely patch of shingle beach not much bigger than a blanket, I walked inland following the smell of smoke. My nose led me to a small hut built of greywacke rock – the type the gold miners built in the 1860s. I looked around carefully and saw no-one, and yet I could sense someone watching me intently, not from the hut, but from the mountains. I had the distinct impression that I had better be careful. I made my movements very slow and very visible, knowing if the watcher had a rifle and a bead on me, my life was in his hands.
Nothing happened. Eventually I left.
I re-visited the old hut many times over the months that followed. I somehow had the idea (I’m not sure from where) that hermits smoked pipes. So I’d stand outside the old greywacke hut and puff away on my granddad’s Doctor Plum briar pipe, marveling that anyone could enjoy smoking that horrible stinky thing. If any of the smoke sneaked into my lungs I’d cough and choke until the tears ran down my face. So I’d take the smoke no further than my mouth and after a respectable delay, puff it out into the thin mountain air. It must have been obvious to an observer that I was a novice at smoking.
However, I had the feeling that my ploy was working. Although I saw no sign of the watcher, I nevertheless suspected that he was gradually relaxing.
The day came when I saw his hat on a rock in the distance. On a later day, I caught a brief glimpse of long silver hair and a lined face the color of teak underneath the same hat. During subsequent visits he revealed more glimpses of himself until, during one crucial moment, he suddenly materialized from behind rocks about 150 meters away and stood stock still in full view, staring. He did indeed carry a rifle at the ready. I thought it prudent to slowly withdraw. I later realized it had been a test, which I passed. If I had not withdrawn, God only knows what might have happened.
It’s called “cabin sickness”. When men have lived for too long completely alone, the presence of other people becomes repulsive to them. They shun all contact. They hide and watch, and can be territorial and unpredictable and capable of almost anything to get rid of the intrusion.
He told me his name was Gaffy. He subsisted off the land. He hunted and fished and gathered berries. When he needed money, he’d mine Scheelite. He had no postal or residential address. His hut was clean and neat and extremely well organized. Not an inch of space was wasted. A stone stove at one end, a bed at the other, a wall of books above the bed, implements tools and utensils hanging from the side walls.
Looking back on it, I think he must have owned the land on which he built his hut. Perhaps he owned a Scheelite claim. I’m not sure about this.
He was slow to trust me. I befriended him, and eventually he revealed bits and pieces about himself. He had withdrawn from the world after a divorce destroyed him. It was pretty obvious that he held humanity in low regard. He wanted no part of it. He was happier to be alone.
In a way, Gaffy already “knew” me, he said. He’d heard me singing at night. It’s true that I used to sing in my bed, which was under a roof in a room with only two walls, and was open to the mountains on two sides. I used to open my throat and yell out old songs at the top of my lungs – gospel songs I’d heard granddad play on his old HMV record player. It puzzled me that Gaffy had heard me sing though. Sound travels far over still water, but not that far. How far did this man venture from his hut, and why? Hunting trips, probably.
INTIMATIONS OF MORTALITY:
Gaffy sometimes talked about “when his time comes” and “a place of rest”. He said the day would come when he would not be there. Nobody would find him. He would have gone to his place of rest.
That day did come. I knew it as I approached the shingle beach in my kayak. Gaffy was gone. I went and stood in front of the greywacke hut, visible to all the high slopes around. I felt the mountains surrounding me like watching eyes, observing my every mannerism and mood. I never saw him again. Gaffy had gone to his place of rest.
EVALUATE THE RISK:
If the SJWs (Social Justice Whankers) have their way, the day will come when it’s an offense for a man to so much as look at a woman. It’s already a huge risk for a man to interact with a woman at all. The case of Mark Weiner, who made the mistake of offering to help a woman by giving her a lift home in his car, is an example.
Honestly, nothing in this world, animal vegetable or mineral, is worth that level of risk. Women are not worth it. I can see a lot more hermits in the offing. Many will be urban hermits. A few, like Gaffy, will escape to the wilderness.
WAS MGTOW A SUCCESS FOR GAFFY?
Did MGTOW work for him? In a word, yes. He could never entirely shake off the nightmare of his past, but he had found a better place than he could find within the madding SMP’s ignoble strife. As he said, “It’s no place for a man. When I came here I didn’t stop living. I gave myself a chance to keep living. Then I started living better. That was a bonus.”
Considering how small the percentage of good women in the western world is, it seems almost miraculous that the only women on this blog are good. Feminism has done them no real favors either.
Had the barking mad feminist world not forced it upon him, Gaffy would not have found it necessary to prove that men don’t need women. He would have made a damn good husband otherwise. But I reckon he would opt for the life alone, no matter what. The stable door had opened, the horse had bolted for freedom, and wouldn’t come back even if the stable were transformed into a palace.